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Three days had passed since Fast and Furious was pulled for "revision."
These weren't just dark days for Stormwind Studios—the entire American gaming industry had plunged into chaos. Dozens of games vanished from digital storefronts overnight. Studios hemorrhaged money while players found themselves locked out of their favorite titles.
The gaming community's rage found a singular target: Brandon Sterling.
"Congratulations, CEO Sterling, Titan's stock hit another new low!"
"Most idiotic business move in history. He played himself!"
"Brandon Sterling single-handedly destroyed American gaming. What a legacy!"
"Don't even mention his name. Makes me physically ill."
"Sterling = Industry Cancer"
"Let's all review-bomb Titan's remaining games. Oh wait, they only have one left that hasn't been pulled!"
"Don't forget their game 'Sword Quest'—report that too!"
Facing overwhelming public pressure, the Digital Entertainment Oversight Committee finally released their "new tier system." In reality, they'd simply shifted all existing ratings up one level. Games previously rated 16+ now required an 18+ rating. Some content got bumped to 21+, locking out huge portions of the player base.
The new regulations meant every game in Infinite Realms needed re-certification before returning online.
An even darker period descended on players. More games disappeared daily. The strict age verification in Infinite Realms meant younger players were genuinely locked out—no workarounds, no exceptions. Teenagers who'd invested years in certain games suddenly found themselves barred for another three to five years.
The committee's review department faced their own nightmare. Thousands of games needed re-evaluation. Overtime became mandatory. Weekend shifts became standard. Coffee consumption reached dangerous levels.
Many reviewers directed their frustration at the root cause: "Brandon Sterling's making me work sixteen-hour days. I haven't seen my kids in a week. Hope he enjoys the karma!"
BANG!
"FOOLISH!" The roar echoed from Brandon's office. Employees in the outer area exchanged nervous glances, communicating silently. They understood what had happened—their CEO's petty revenge scheme had backfired spectacularly.
As industry professionals, they found his behavior incomprehensible. Destroying the entire ecosystem over personal grudges? The narrow-mindedness and lack of foresight made them question their employment choices.
"This is an extremely foolish thing you've done!" Charles Sterling's face was purple with rage as he confronted his son.
"I didn't expect it to snowball like this," Brandon mumbled, shoulders hunched defensively.
"Think before you act! Don't you understand Fast and Furious's global influence? They have partnerships with major automotive manufacturers. You think Lamborghini will just watch their investment burn? If those companies unite against us, the Sterling family is finished!" Charles's voice dropped to a harsh whisper.
He'd lost control initially, but walls had ears. What Brandon had done wasn't just stupid—it was potentially criminal.
These past days, not just Titan Games but the entire Sterling corporate empire had suffered. Stock prices tumbled. Consumer boycotts spread beyond gaming. Brand reputation lay in tatters.
And this was just the beginning. If Fast and Furious stayed down, those automotive partners would demand blood. International corporations didn't forgive threats to their bottom line. If they coordinated retaliation, the Sterling family fortune could evaporate overnight.
Most galling to Charles was the sheer pointlessness. His son had engineered this disaster over what? Hurt feelings? Professional jealousy? It was playground behavior with corporate consequences.
Now they faced public humiliation, financial losses, and social ostracism within their elite circles. Charles could barely show his face at the country club.
Brandon remained silent, head bowed. Truthfully, he hadn't anticipated this cascade of consequences. He'd wanted to hurt Alex Morrison, not trigger industry-wide collapse. The bullet he'd fired had ricocheted back with interest.
Fast and Furious remained offline. Deputy Director Walsh, under investigation himself now but still wielding influence, ensured every resubmission faced mysterious delays. Best case scenario: two more weeks minimum.
But Titan Games had been annihilated. Reported en masse, review-bombed into oblivion, their entire catalog pulled or crippled. Even 'Sword Quest,' their cash cow dominating the fantasy market, faced content restrictions after mass reporting.
The message was clear: Fast and Furious stayed down, Titan stayed dead.
Worse, Brandon had become the internet's favorite villain. Death threats filled his inbox. His Wikipedia page required constant moderation. Memes of his face with devil horns trended weekly. The psychological toll would break weaker men.
Only his wealth, connections, and sheer arrogance kept him functional. Anyone else might have considered dramatic exits from tall buildings.
"You will fix this mess yourself," Charles said coldly. "Don't expect me to clean up after you again. Maybe public humiliation will finally teach you consequences."
He genuinely regretted spoiling Brandon. This disaster was partly his fault—too much money, too little discipline, zero accountability until now.
Charles left without another word, his expression thunderous.
Once alone, Brandon's humble mask dropped. His face twisted with renewed hatred.
He wouldn't accept defeat. The losses were already catastrophic—might as well ensure mutual destruction. If he was going down, Alex Morrison would burn alongside him.
Besides, without redirecting public anger soon, the mob might literally drive him to suicide. He needed a new strategy, a way to make Alex the villain instead.
"You think you're the only one who understands public opinion, Morrison?" Brandon muttered through gritted teeth. "Let's see how you handle being the bad guy."
The next morning, a prominent gaming influencer—one who'd recently received a mysterious $50,000 donation—posted breaking news. A teenager in New York, obsessed with Fast and Furious, had stolen his uncle's car and crashed during an illegal street race. Two pedestrians were critically injured.
The article included an "exclusive interview" where the teen specifically blamed Fast and Furious for inspiring his actions. He'd been "addicted" to the game, wanting to recreate its stunts in real life.
The story was perfect—tragic, emotional, seemingly authentic. Parents' worst fears about violent games confirmed. The innocent victims garnering sympathy. The reckless teenager providing a cautionary tale.
Within hours, mainstream media picked up the story. Morning shows discussed gaming's "dangerous influence." Parent groups demanded stronger regulations. Politicians smelled opportunity for easy soundbites about "protecting our children."
Brandon watched the narrative shift from his office, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. The frame-up was shameless but effective. Let's see Morrison talk his way out of inspiring actual criminal behavior.
Of course, careful observers might notice oddities. The teen's family's sudden reluctance to pursue charges. The victims' medical bills mysteriously paid by an "anonymous benefactor." The influencer's newfound wealth.
But public opinion rarely dealt in careful observation. It fed on emotion, outrage, and simple narratives.
Brandon had provided all three.
PLZ throw Powerstones